He kept saying, “This is a Jewish custom from time immemorial, it cannot be changed”

A week before Shabbos Hagadol, I was deep in conversation with Reb Leib, a recognized talmid chacham and a baal chesed second to none. His day is filled, from morning to night, with Torah and chesed. Yet he somehow always finds time for me, and I cherish our friendship.

As we were discussing the halachos of Erev Pesach that falls on Shabbos, Reb Leib unexpectedly waxed nostalgic. “Shabbos Hagadol was my bar mitzvah parshah over fifty years ago.”

I tried to coax him the story of his bar mitzvah out of him, sure that he would recall the deep pshetl he said that day. It turned out to be an even more amazing story than I could have imagined. Here is what he told me.

MY bar mitzvah was an event that changed the course of my entire life.

I was born and raised in Out-of Townsville, America. I was called Leo — I knew nothing about the name Leib. My parents were typical American Jews who went to shul three days a year.

When I was 12, my father went to the local non-Orthodox synagogue and scheduled my bar mitzvah for Saturday, April 6, 1974. I learned with the synagogue cantor to read the haftarah. My entire family was excited for the big event. Aunt Molly would be flying in from Miami, and Grandma Bessie would drive in from Brooklyn.

Everything seemed perfect, until it wasn’t.

About two weeks before my bar mitzvah, the rabbi of the temple called to inform us that Saturday, April 6, was Shabbos Hagadol, the “Great Sabbath,” and the synagogue youth director had made a mistake when he allowed my bar mitzvah to be scheduled that day. The rabbi explained that he would recite the haftarah, as dictated by Jewish custom.

[The practice of giving the rav maftir on Shabbos Hagadol is an accepted minhag in some communities.]

No amount of pleading would change the rabbi’s mind. He kept saying, “This is a Jewish custom from time immemorial, it cannot be changed. Your son will have his bar mitzvah in June. That’s the first available Saturday.”

I never saw my father so upset.

He said, “Leo, get into the car.”

Off we drove, and we arrived at a small building that my father said was the Orthodox temple. I did not even know what Orthodox meant.

My father knocked on the door to the rabbi’s study, and with me in tow, he explained the entire saga to the rabbi.

My father concluded with the plea, “Rabbi, my son has prepared the haftarah. He wants his bar mitzvah on his Hebrew birthday, which is the day before Passover. Can we please have the bar mitzvah here?”

The rabbi stood up and looked at me. He asked me if, over the next two weeks, I would spend time learning with him.

I agreed.

The rabbi stood there for a few minutes and then grabbed my father’s hand. With a huge smile, he declared, “It would be my honor, Leo, if you would read the haftarah on Shabbos Hagadol in our shul.”

Somehow, the rabbi realized my potential. After all, it is certainly unusual to have a bar mitzvah on Erev Pesach that falls out on Shabbos, and he surely could have said no.

That rabbi’s decision over fifty years ago took my life in a different direction. I continued to learn with him after my bar mitzvah, and eventually, I would go to yeshivah.

AT this point in his story, Reb Leib’s eyes misted over. “Who knows what would have come of me had that rabbi not given me maftir?”

 (Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1059)